Dodgy police § Corporate justice § Cup of tea, Sir?

Please devour my mammoth dream if you have the guts

I desperately need to gain employment in my current Swedish climate. If I don’t within 1-2 weeks then I will run out of cash supplies and be forced to go back to England. I have found my way into an English speaking office where they require a person to complete some vague, data input work. I am chatting/flirting with the manageress and another office girl for many minutes. A lot of laughter and eye-lash fluttering eye contact is involved. It transpires that another man has been given the position. Rueful looks indicate that they really wish they had given it to me. Further sour facial expressions reveal that they also are not too keen on this time-travelling usurper and inform me that he is employed on a trial basis only. If he fails this testing period then the job is mine. Definitely mine.

"I'm gagging for a cup of tea" I say "do you mind if I make one for all of us?"

Showing my “new-male” house-trained side makes them even hotter towards me. I make sure to offer the same kindness to my work-based enemy, in fact, going one step further and asking if he has a special little mug he likes to drink his tea out of. He looks like an archetypal stoner: Long greasy hair, scruffy ripped jeans, hole ridden t-shirts brandishing ancient metal bands nobody listens to anymore. I give these people some credit though. It’s no mean feat to be so cluelessly out of touch as a 40 year old whilst technically aging half that number. I feel deflated that the destroyer of my Swedish dreams is so completely devoid of wit, charm and is unable to fully open his red, sleepy eyes. A general air of self-served, unsubstantiated doom surrounds him.

Next I find myself in the kitchen with a mug in my hand that somehow I know for certain is his -Even though he never specified which mug is his and even though all the mugs are the same.
The tea is already in his cup. Out of my pocket I pull out a box of high strength sleeping capsules. After splitting each one, depositing the white powder into the drink and giving it a quick stir I was all ready to present to him with a lovely cup of tea. I give my mobile number to the office ladies, leave the building and simply wait.

Whilst pacing the streets I receive the anticipated phone call.

"There has been a problem with one of our employees that has lead to his dismissal. Would you mind coming in now to start work immediately. I'm really sorry, I know it's short notice. Do you mind?" says the womanly voice

'No, No.’ I soothe.

‘I'm up and raring to go. I'll be there shortly'

On my journey to the office I see a Swedish, Telia phone box. This brings to the surface previous anger against these people. During my time in Sweden I have made phone calls that equate to £1 for less than 12 seconds of talk time. I enter the phone box with the intention of twatting the phone receiver against the metal box a few times to gain some futile satisfaction. On the wall I see a new notice, in English, which I have never seen before. It states that charges begin, credit starts to deplete from the moment it starts to ring. If you ring for 20 rings and no one answers you will still lose all your calling credit. I am incensed. I try to tell the Swedish people walking past me what this company is doing but they don't care.

"We use our cell phones"

Cell phones? Typical Swedish-American wannabes. I storm off towards my new work place, releasing my anger with every step until when I arrive I am completely calm.

The office is now a large, corporate tower block with an elaborate stair case donned in red carpet. I see a short, podgy man in a suit climbing the stairs. He wears round glasses and looks like a mole. After a couple of seconds I recognise him as the head of the entire Swedish public telephone system.

"You!" I shout whilst pointing at him.

My hand is trembling with pent up emotional anger. He instantly looks sheepish and afraid.

"I know what you're up to. Causing the price of the telephone box to become so expensive that it forces people to use their mobiles. Once people view the phone boxes as obsolete they will remove them and then you, with your position as head of various mobile phone companies, will sky rocket the price of mobile calls because no one will have any alternative. There will be no competition"

He starts to run away. I begin to chase whilst shouting…

"You idiot. In a few years time everyone will be making phone calls over the internet anyway. Think you're clever?"

The CEO of Telia runs into an office, managing to hurdle over the solid front desk. I follow his manoeuvre with grace, then pounce, grabbing his tie in the process. I head butt him with the intention of breaking the lenses inside his framed glasses, forcing shards of glass into his spongy, rat eye-balls. I start to lift him off the ground with his tie and repeatedly pound his shiny head into the ground. I then embark on a frenetic, bezerker style fit which involves smashing the table and office furniture around me whilst making rabid growling, panting animal noises.
My power is immense.

I'd spent about £10 in real life on these phone boxes. Once it took 3, £1 phone calls just to arrange a time and place to meet. I am pissed off

After a brief period of fruitful smashing a horrible realisation fills my body causing me to stop dead in my tracks.

It is such a shock that my mouth is

h

a

n

g

ing

open

( )

and

I am

staring

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

off

into

space

¤-¤-¤(-0-) ¤¤¤¤¤ *

* *

* *

*

with a

catatonic

expression `^´ `^´

on my

face as

dogs often do.

This office is my new office.

On most peoples' first day at work they make some nervous small talk and worry about whether they can actually execute the job description which they confidentally claim they can whilst lying their way through the interview. I'd just chased a very important looking man who actually WAS a very important and powerful man into my work place, given him a Scottish style beating and then broken a lot of expensive looking furniture. The look of sheer, aghast, horror on my ex-work mates’ faces sends a stark shudder down my spine. I am racking my brain to think of a witty one-liner that may in some way rescue the situation when I see a team of security guards coming towards me.

The Swedish security guards are slightly different to the over-weight, stupid, under-trained, slow, apathetic security guards that laze about English shops and offices. The Swedish security guards act with military style training. They carry telescopic batons, handcuffs and walkie-talkies. They don't bother trying to talk down a situation with sweet words. For the most seemingly innocent of offences -not paying for a ticket on the underground metro system - they will happily slam you into the ground face first, handcuff you then drag you away to a secret place where even more guards await you. There you may receive a vicious beating, but this all depends on your nationality. I am pretty startled by the site of these people, as afraid as if it was the actual police themselves.

I pelt it away from the office and execute a magical, Disney-like slide down the banister of the staircase with the plush red carpets. I continue running. The gravity of the carnage, the harshness of the Swedish legal system coupled with its possible punishment is growing inside me. I now know that I need to acquire a get away vehicle.

As soon as I have entertained this thought there appears a strange man who looks something between a circus performer and a Marilyn Manson fan. He has long black hair, a top hat and boots covered in tin foil. He juggles bowling skittles as he moves. This man isn't walking though, he was moves utilising a very odd contraption. It’s a cross between moon boots with springy, bouncy heels and a unicycle. I calmly tell him to get off and he silently submits. I place my feet on the metal foot holders and try to get to grips with the control. It’s a combination between walking normally wearing a rucksack full of bricks and cycling except that it takes much more effort and energy than either of them. The top speed is a snail’s pace but I decide to venture on to escape the security men. I turn round to see how close behind me they are but they have disappeared.

No feeling of relief comes over me after this miraculous escape. The piece of shit the freak gave me I dump by the side of the road then set off walking. Moments later I notice a policeman on my right side, talking to me about where we should patrol. I look down at myself, spy a police uniform and realise that I too am now a policeman. Nothing seems peculiar to me about this situation.

I decide it’s best to go back to England for a while until I can make sense of everything. To do this I need money. A shady looking character is skulking around on the other side of the street.

"Let's illegally search him" I say to my partner.
'Ok' comes the reply

we shake him down finding a large quantity of cocaine and a large wad of English cash on his person. My partner starts to handcuff my potential cash cow and reaches for his radio.

"No" I Say.
"He's learnt his lesson. Haven't you?" I say turning to the man with the drugs. The man who hasn’t uttered a single world

'Er..yes' he says in a confused and hopeful manner

"Ok. We'll let you off this time. We're going to give this money to orphans and tip this coke down the drain. Don’t tell anyone about what happened here today though"

The lucky criminal wanders away.

'Wow. It's like Robin Hood' exclaims my partner

"Yes, isn't it just?

I better go and take care of all this now. Carry on as you were"

As I depart from him it doesn't occur to me at this time how utterly naïve my partner is and how utterly terrible my lies that he has swallowed are.

Openly,

in broad daylight,

whilst wearing a Policeman's uniform

I start snorting coke in the middle of the street. The next moment I am in England -Minus the money and the cocaine. I head back to my old house in Withington to see Olga. Now that I am in England this is my main and most important mission. In real life I know she has been suffering from flu. Inside her bedroom I find her curled up in bed, asleep, with her head at the opposite end of the bed to where she usually rests.

I wake her up by calling her name.

Her sleepy eyes are very pleased to see me but because of illness and sleep she is still groggy, probably thinking that she is in a dream herself. I start tenderly kissing her neck on the areas that all girls seem to really enjoy. Even in the dream I’m aware that Olga is a close friend and that we have never kissed each other before, but it seems like the appropriate thing to do and so I follow my heart. The noises she makes as I kiss her are ones of longing satisfaction.

She realises that I am real and lifts up the duvet as an invitation to climb inside the bed. The bed is comfortable, warm and we start to hug. The hug is strong, feels emotional and perfectly right like we are missing pieces of a jig-saw fitting together at last. I feel safe and at peace.

Known and unknown Swedish girls in my dream.+ something about my tongue

Of all the dreams I must have dreamt last night here are 2 of the 3 that I remember. The third one is obese and commands it's own post proceeding this one. Back story regarding the characters in this dream follows within this post. I know nobody reads this anymore because it died but maybe some ghosts can work out my dreams?

I was sat on the floor of an unknown bedroom in Sweden. To my right was a wardrobe containing a mirror attached to the middle panel. In the room with me are 2 of Leylla’s friends, Emilia and Maria. They are both highly amused at something and Maria passes to Emilia some fake, black eyebrows that are in the shape of a wide, inverted V.She attaches them to her face whilst shielding the results. When she takes her hands away, her face is contorted in such a hilarious, villainous way -complimented by the eyebrows- that we all fall about pissing ourselves. It’s sort of like count von count from sesame street, done in a hammer-horror style but better. I start to reach for my camera to take a photo of Emilia’s comedy face but before I can she passes the eyebrows to Maria. She now makes a face too, it’s pretty funny and we laugh quite hard. Maria realises that Emilia’s face is class and so passes the eyebrows back without a trace of bitterness.

Now however we are sat in a different room of the house and Leylla is sat in between both of them. Her hair is now an afro with way too much hair on top to make it seem like a cone, this causes her face to look chubby and accentuates the worst feature of her face, her nose. The clothes are completely different from the type she would normally wear. A plain, dark green t shirt is all I remember; it had stains on it and is something you’d expect a really poor American child to wear. The look in her eyes was as if she had been half-lobotomised.

Emilia is making the funny face again and I really want to take a photo of it but feel that I can’t because Leylla would have a go at me and later at Emilia –In real life she controls some of her friends through fear and her outrageous, unnecessary emotional tantrums. I feel disheartened because I can’t do what I want to do. I look at Leylla and then realise I don’t want to look at her anymore. I choose to look at Maria because she has such a pleasant face. The dream ended.

*It is weird that I should dream about Maria because I only ever met her briefly twice in my life and didn’t even have a proper one on one conversation, maybe a few words in a group conversation. I have no idea what kind of person she is. Obviously she is some kind of representation of Sweden/me in Sweden that I cannot figure out.

This is the second time or so she has been in my dreams since I have been here though. In another her and her sister, Anja had come to visit me in England. I would ask them a simple question in English and then they would talk together for about a minute in Swedish, start laughing a lot and then Maria would turn and very sharply give blunt one word answers. It felt very odd.

I used to dream about Anja quite a lot when I was going out with Leylla but we would normally just be sat, calmly talking about things. I don’t remember anything specific.

I dreamt about Leylla one other time in the 2 and bit weeks I have been here. I was walking near the train station in central Stockholm when I saw her. I called out her name and she saw me, started to cry and then ran away. I started to chase her but after a minute I completely stopped. What would I do if I caught up with her? All I wanted to do was talk and if she didn’t want to how could I make her. I just lie on the pavement and put my hands around my head.

This is the first time I dreamt about Emilia since I have been here. When Leylla and I lived together she visited us in Manchester for a week. She kept telling me how ugly Emilia was before she came and that if I made a move on her then she would go through with it because she didn’t care about Leylla. I wasn’t sure if this was some kind of test. After I first saw Emilia Leylla told me that she thought I was attractive which perplexed me even more. If she thought this way about Emilia then why invite her to stay? Because Leylla had lowered my expectations of how Emilia would look and act I was surprised when I met her. She looked like the kind of girl I would normally fancy and somehow she made a nose piercing look well.

Buck 65 was playing a gig at the Night & day on the second day of her visit. Leylla had bought 2 tickets and promised that I could have the other one; she kept telling me how good a time I would have. When Emilia was here Leylla decided that she wanted to go to the gig by herself because someone needed to stay and look after Emilia. The logical thing would be for Leylla to either not go to the gig or just maybe give Emilia the other ticket. No, in Leylla’s world it was now MY duty to stay with her friend from Sweden, the one who I had met the day before for the first time. It would have been easy to stick on a DVD or something but then I would feel uncomfortable because I feel better once I have had a proper conversation with someone, otherwise my mind starts to play paranoid tricks. Instead I spent the time hanging out, talking to Emilia and had a really good time. It felt comfortable and I suppose in the end it was the best thing because 3 people is a crowd sometimes and it might have been awkward between us if we had to be around each other for a week.

Upon Leylla’s return she was angry that we had connected with each other. She wanted me to, and I quote, “get on with her friends, but not too well.” Hmm. Such clear and specific guidelines, totally arbitrary in their complete unjustness.

Despite Leylla’s concerns we were all sleeping in the same bed. She demanded that we should leave the dirty sheets on because that’s what Emilia would do. I declined and put fresh sheets on. As the week went on I started to like Leylla less and less because of the way she was treating both me and Emilia. We went out to a shit forest rave and dropped pills. Leylla was in the bathroom and overheard me and Emilia plotting against her and saying how much we loved each other. She then realised we had been talking in Swedish and that was impossible for me so therefore was hallucinating

Leylla kept asking me if I fancied Emilia. She kept going on and on about it so much that I started to wonder myself. She kept saying that Emilia was the worst person out of all of her friends who I could like, that she was the most forbidden chocolate in the sweet shop. On and on and on she would rant. I’m the kind of person who doesn’t enjoy being told what to do and want things that I’m not supposed to, allowed to have. By saying these things Leylla was only creating a situation she feared so much. I hadn’t even thought these things about Emilia, why would I? She was my girlfriend’s friend. All I wanted to do was be a good host and be nice to her. It was a bonus that I genuinely started to like her quite a lot, but only on a friendship level. I hadn’t considered the physical side of Emilia apart from the first meeting when I was like “oh, she’s not ugly.” Leylla kept putting all these ideas in my head. I didn’t know if I liked Emilia in that way but I do know that I liked her more than I liked Leylla during that week long visit.

Emilia had to sleep upstairs after a while. One night I had a dream about me and her having really passionate, bed breaking sex. I woke up worried and sweating to be greeted by Leylla.

“I just had a really horrible nightmare that you and Emilia got together. Did you dream about it too?”

I didn’t wanna lie to my girlfriend particularly but the consequences of admitting this would be devastating for both me and Emilia so I was forced to lie for the greater good. It freaked me out a lot that we had had the same dream and woken up at the same time

Leylla broke up with me during that visit, went mental, and kept calling one of my other housemates who had gone to her new flat to see if she could stay. Leylla was going seriously mental and saying “oh, now you can sleep together and fuck each other like you wanted to all along.” Other nasty things were said. Emilia and I were just sat in the front room talking about what happened and why Leylla had gone that way. I hated Leylla so much at that point that I wanted her to leave so I wouldn’t have to hear her spiteful words. Someone like her drains the life out of you. She still kept going on about me and Emilia. It was starting to seem like a pretty good idea actually. I liked Emilia a lot more emotionally and physically at that point and I wondered if she would be able to swap her ticket with Leylla so that she would be the one to disappear and then Emilia could stay behind. I concluded that my thoughts maybe weren’t my own and I had just been drawn into Leylla’s poisonous world.

Leylla refused to take Emilia to the airport. I had to go to a new job I had started and actually liked so I couldn’t take her any further than town. I stole a book for Emilia and some food I think and said goodbye even though I was 25 minutes late for work. I felt sorry that she had to be so scared of Leylla and what she would do. Could she not see how insecure and weak she was? Probably that’s what made her seem so dangerous.

Leylla’s version of sanity returned after Emilia left and she actually apologised….probably never did to her friend. We fell deeply back in love and things went up and down the way they usually went. I thought about Emilia every now and then but only in a friendly way, never in a sexual way. However, for 2 solid months after that she would be in my dreams in one way or another. Usually heavily sexual. I started to become disturbed by it all and had to admit it to one of my close friends to gain advice.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My other dream

I spent a lot of time practising rolling my R’s. Eventually succeeding. I still cannot do this in real life, finding it embarrassing and irritating when contemplating my deficiency. However, when I mastered this skill -which I desire so badly- in my dream, I felt empty inside, possibly a little contemptuous.

God told Jesus to empty the rubbish.The lazy Jew poured bin juice on the UK from whence Preston grew

I started wondering whether my opinion of the UK and its general population: their ignorance, their primitive roots & urges, had been inflated & exaggerated to unrealistic heights in my head. To have full confidence & validity in my disdain I decided to take a little field trip.......

Preston (Lancashire,Uk) on a Saturday night:

Imagine the "club scene" in a small, isolated and backward place like Rawtenstall or Bury. Picture all those genetic anomolies sweating the grease off their foreheads.

Imagine a zoo where the animals hadn't been castrated or sedated. Instead of dozing they strut round wanting to either fuck or kill anything that their eyes chance upon.

Imagine if the mentality of these animals: their intelligence, their morals, their desires, their lack of self-awareness and personal hygience was living inside the minds of men.

Imagine if these animal men were integrated into Bury or Rossendale. Fucking skeg-eyed women, leaving an army of kids behind they feel no love for. Killing off all the weaker males leaving only a small number of violent elite.

Imagine if a few generations of similar behaviour down the linethese people & their families were cloned into hundreds of thousands,shipped out & let loose in a city that they were free to piss all over and mark their own.

Now you have Preston.

Entire main streets filled with gigantic Yates's, Tokyo Jo, the 80s club. R&b, generic pop music drowning the city.

This special new breed of men have a slightly more stringent criteria for judging a potential mate than their animal forefathers.
Attractiveness is defined by:

1. A distinct lack of clothing
2. The blonder & more chemically damaged hair the better
3. A natural, bright orange shade of skin.This year the Oompa Loompa look is definitely sending those men wild

Unfortunately for these men society dictates that they can't just wander up to a female of the same species, start sniffing their crotch & then mount. Our advanced species requires that we must wrestle down their minds with out superior intellect.

"What's your name luv?"

'Donna'

"NO way! That's my favourite name in the world"

man turns to grab his mate & says

"This girl is called Donna, isn't it my favourite name in the world?"

Mate says "yeah, oh yeah...definitely"

First man turns and smiles at the girl.

"ah, I love that name.How weird is that?"

The girl titters and smiles flirtatiously. Powerless to withstand such cunning mind spells she takes the clever bait & is snared. (I'd like to make something better up but as a fly-on-the-wall I must document fact & truth only)

My lack of interest or technique towards any of the truly pitiful Horror-bags around me yielded some interesting results. Middle aged women stroking/questioning my hair, but mainly pulling my cheeks and going "awwwwwwwww! You look cute" whilst making that slightly deranged sound that people make when they start yanking helpless childrens' faces with chubby cheeks. I've noticed a disturbing trend in the UK that the only women who are attracted to me are 30 . The hunger in their eyes is more of wanting to hug me tight all night, chitter-chatter until 9 in the morning, then make sure I left on a full stomach and that my scarf was tightly fastened rather than fucking me unconscious until my cock is broken and dry. Gutted.

The men are an interesting bunch. They all have the same hair cut. If your hair is longer than an inch then you're a "poof." If you don't wear a dark,bland shirt, jeans, or a t-shirt with a number on it then you "think you're special" & are a "Poof." Those who are unfortunate enough to not buy their clothes from top shop and/or whose reasoning behind a hair cut goes beyond "I get out of bed ,ready for the day" are immediately identified as outsiders.

If an outsider shys away from eye contact or conversation then he will be set upon; the pack can smell fear. If an outsider tries to interfere with the "High-grade" "women" then he will draw nasty attention to himself and make innumerable enemies. The best approach is a stern face (don't smile) & a confident stroll with an untouchable aire that suggests you are allied with bouncers or gangsters. This will work fine unless a drought of women occurs. They will then turn their indiscriminate sexual feelings (aggression) into a completely different emotion of mindless, indiscriminate violence. Outsiders beware.

Being an animal means that there is no filter between thought & action: You do whatever comes into your mind & unquestioningly follow instinct, regardless of how it makes you look or how anyone else will feel. They constantly scan the room for any girls right next to them, any girls quite close and time permitting girls far away. Any girls who walks past gets an immediate & thorough full scan. They grin and leer at other pack members when they see something they like. If they are really pleased with what they see then their heads tilt to one side, neck strains forward whilst simultaneously doing a "Home alone" after shave expression with their face, allowing their mouths to hang open and their tongues hang out. Their body leans forward trying to keep their head level with the ever distancing bum. They only snap out of their "arse wiggling" induced trance when they nearly lose balance,falling flat on their flat, featureless faces.

In summary:

Interesting conversation - Zero

Number of women with tribal/chinese tattoos on their lower back - Can't count that high

Attractive women - 1 asian girl

Men who didn't look like they belonged on an England football terrace making monkey noises - 3 who were handing out flyers. They were wankers too though. The annoying stereotypical gays who learnt their trade watching caricature queers like Graham Norton & Julian Clarey. Thought they had style but didn't. Only asian & black men can pull off wearing sparkly studded earings in their lobes, you utter fools.

Cleansing plague

Scraping finger nails
Corner of the plague digs in
Excavates dole dirt

A Haiku is supposed to capture a moment. This moment was me sat at the signing on desk inside Preston job centre when I caught myself picking the dirt out of my fingernails with the corner of a book called "The Plague" by Albert Camus. I felt like a scruffy bastard, deciding that creating something out of my own squallid filth might elevate me slightly above the level of a 'Trendy Tramp', the look I have been accidentally cultivating on and off for the last 3 years.

I live life like the Captain of a sinking ship

All around me is grey.
Steel grey and bolts.
A constant low hum fills the air, the frequency of which reacts with my brain leaving me nauseous and disorientated.
I'm wearing a light blue jump suit, as are the other 3 men who surround me. We're alone in the lower recesses of the ship, the bottom deck, where the sides of the ship meet at a point. An eerie silence prevails.

The feeling I have inside me is that bored numbness that occurs when you're at a tedious job you really hate in full knowledge that the only interesting thing that will come out of anyone elses's mouth is cigarette smoke. It's interesting because out of all the aspects of their character:

A) Last night's/Tomorrows game.
B) Lewd comments regarding women they would have no idea how to strike up a conversation with, never mind pleasure.
C) Grossly misinformed and inaccurate political opinions they lapped up from whichever scare-mongering news rag it happens to be that shows the most tit.
D) Gossip: Celebrity/Personal/Extended network.
E) Alcohol anecdotes: I had *insert anecdote* pints/bottles and I was so *insert anecdote*

their slow, toxic death is the only thing you really care about.

I've completely forgotten why I have been sent here.

"What's going on?" I enquire
'The ship is heading for an ice berg. We've got to strenghten it so the hull won't be breeched'

My maintenance colleague says this so nonchalantly that it infects me and I remain very calm and unphased. I assume that it must be a very small ice berg and that some precise calculations have been made to assure our safety. The modifications that are about to be made will revert imminent disaster. Even though I am still quite calm, I feel a strange, new urge bubble inside me. An urge to work really hard.

I look around for our life saving equipment. It hasn't arrived yet, only the cleaning crews mops and brushes are in sight.

"Do we not need wood and nails or some welding gear?"
'No, just follow our lead' the same man replies.

A brief amount of time passes until he says,
"Get ready to brace, ok...now"

The 3 men pick up some long brushes, the type used by caretakers. The points of the handles are imbedded into their chests, the brush ends pushed up against the front of the ship, some horizontal, some vertical. The men are pushing with all their might, the strain visible on their faces.

'What the hell are you doing!? Help us!' screams the man with the mouth.

I grab a brush and rest it against the ship.

'Come on, push!' shouts the man

"This is stupid. If the ice berg can break through the ship then how can 4 men with brushes contain it!?" says I

'These are our orders'

"What's the name of this ship?"

'The Titanic'

"We're all gonna die!" I wail

'Only if we fail' comes his stern reply

My feet are cold. I look down and I'm ankle deep in water.

"We've already been breeched. Let's run away to the top deck, it's our only chance"

'No! We're preventing the ship from sinking. Many lives depend on us'

I start to push really hard. Maybe this guy is right? He seems to know more about it than me.
The water is rising.
I look at the other mens' brushes. No one has even formed an X. There's no formation here. 4 men randomly positioning brushes against a hull. This isn't precise, it's precisely what I thought it was, madness.

"I'm off boys. Good luck with all this business though..."

I throw my brush to the side and start splashing my way away from the lunatics. After a few seconds I hear a gigantic roar from behind and I am swept away by a torrent of water and killed.

Grapple a Falafel

I wandered into a pizzeria in need of falafel and in need of shelter.
“Do you want to eat inside?” asked the Italian looking Italian man. He looked exactly like you want a man serving you in an Italian authentic style pizzeria to look like: Short, curly, moustachey. If Luigi from Mario was an actual real, every day person but with much tamer hair and moustache, minus his very gay, green dungarees/jump suit he would probably look a litte bit like one of this guy’s removed cousins. You could tell he would spend many hours simply spinning dough around his hands like a spinning plate, laughing as he spun, laughing harder and more outlandishly as he watched the dough get bigger and bigger, thinner and thinner teetering between his near perfect, graceful control and flying off its axis at some absurd, floppy angle. Flour always fell endlessley from the sky when he span and the room slowed down, turning to sepia. The flour bounced off the dough covering his face, then got wafted away .......I trusted this guy and accepted his comforting gesture of restbite* from the bitter snow with a humble, warm, smile.

“It now costs 40k to buy food and eat in?” (nearly £4!) A swift sum of 40 minus 29 equalled this was a take out order. He didn’t know that I had no qualms about going over to the indoor shopping centre and procuring myself a table at a rival food establishment. He didn’t know that I would sit there unashamedly, smiling without even considering a minute, guilty purchase. He didn’t know that if I was challenged by a member of staff I would respond in a made up language, flummoxing and embarrassing them until they left me alone. No, he didn't know a lot of things. Actually, I Was starting to wonder whether perversely spinning dough was the only thing he did know. Maybe he was suffering from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, being one of the lucky few able to grind a living out of this severe affliction. Sadly, due to the nefarious machinations of capitalism, there is no place in the working world for the man who has to constantly check and measure the angles of the ornaments on his mantlepiece and tie his shoelaces 16 times so that his family won't die in the most horrific manner.

Inside the shopping centre happily seated at the table I open the wrapping. I have told myself not to get excited, this isn’t Rusholme Falafel. I had already been pre-warned that for some utterly bizarre, unknown, disgusting, inexcusable and unforgiveable reason, no falafel place in Uppsala serves houmous or makes any attempt at some kind of refreshing yoghurt dip that is destined to be served with any meaningful falafel. Even if you bought a frozen falafel from a supermarket in England you would get a yoghurt dip. In Uppsala, they treat a falafel how a filthy English Take-away would treat one of their disgusting burgers or one of their inexplicable kebabs. The kebabs which they get from shaving what can only be described as “something” off of a huge slab of “unknown.” This unidentifiable object turns up at the takeaway each week a variety of colours raging from dark red to white, waiting to be devoured by some drunken island monkey dweller who knows every single night out is going to be topped off in the same way. Leaning on a counter, slaughtered, minger-in-tow, pale faced, greasy forehead, open gormless mouth which grunts "Donner."
Yes, they treat it how they treat their other culinary delights: brown, stringy, dry lettuce and a bit of onion. They have so little ingredients because they're desperate to get to their favourite part of the proceedings. The part where they ask you if you want sauce & when you say "Yeah, but only a tiny, tiny smidgeon please" they then nod in full acknowledgement, a slight second before drowning your food in a queer sea beyond the point of salvage. They live for that moment.

Actually, why *is* my falafel swimming in some horrible white sauce...looks kinda thick. No need to panic, don’t worry, surely it’s Italian Momma’s home made special sauce. Not gonna risk it. Not with that poison lying readily available in seemingly every kitchen in the world. I dip a finger..........
taste.......
so it’s you again....
Mayonnaise; we lock horns again, but as always it's you on the offensive in an unprovoked and senseless pre-emptive strike.
Mayonnaise: the ruiner of perfectly good sandwiches across the land.
Mayonnaise: the litmus test that divides the sane from the lame.

I march back towards the shop. Even though I smoked a spliff just before ordering I still have no worries about pointing out to Luigi that he is a mayonnaise harbouring bastard. The previously empty pizzeria was now filled with 4 new bodies. When I say empty, it wasn’t. There was a very sophisticated looking, older, italian gentleman with silver hair of the refined variety. He was sat in a very sharp suit being very suave, healthy and olive skinned. He genuinely appeared like you would expect an Italian Godfather to look. Expect if you expected one to look like someone out of Goodfellas or some other Hollywood supposedly “Gritty” gangster flick. The very fact that he could have starred in such a movie made it very clearly that wasn’t a part of any pizzeria toting crime family. This was just a gentile old man with a sense of style, to whom life had dealt a favourable hand.

This was a simple, straightforward shop situation. I calmly, politely and in a friendly manner explained the situation. I decided not to listen to what would be undoubtedly generic words of apology and promise of a fresh, clean, untainted falafel. I put on my “Don’t worry, everything’s fine, no problem here” face and entertained myself with my own thoughts. His fervent headshakes and universal “No deal” signals –Arms out in front, crossed in an ‘X’ and then uncrossed out to the sides back and forth repeatedly- enticed me back into the conversation. I was propelled from being a mere silent, disinterested extra in this Restaurant industry, scripted, farce of no refunds or returns policy, to being the writer, director and leading role. In England, the take away would have instantly granted my very reasonable request. Nobody wants to make a customer unhappy because:
1) They will never again bring their custom.
2) A customer who has a bad experience will badmouth said place to their friends and others. Possibly starting a stereotypical urban myth including the words "Health inspection," "spunk" and "animal."

It’s common business sense.

This is just a misunderstanding. I explain that I was never given the choice of mayonnaise. Existentialists may argue against this, wrongly.
There was no choice.

Still he protests..........
I start to pity the guy at this point. What he has failed to realise is that in his position the only trick up his sleeves is to say “No” and to hope that the person walks away, tail between legs. If the person refuses he can add nothing extra to his argument, having to merely keep responding “No” and hope that the customer eventually gives up the fight. With every second that passed my position became stronger, his weaker. Luigi had already used his special move, had already fired his one and only big gun. I was still throwing stones. I don’t up the ante at this point, still believeing reason and common sense will prevail.

“You didn’t ask me if I wanted mayonnaise though..”
‘It was obvious it was going to be there’
“There’s no sign saying that mayonnaise comes as standard..”
‘You don’t need no sign. Does the sign list everything you get in it? No’
“The falafel sign does actually list everythng and it doesn’t say mayonnaise.I just want to know how when you didn’t explain in person or on a sign why you assume that I should know this?”

This is beginning to get tedious. The only thing he is doing is wasting both our time, disturbing everyone elses peace and delaying pending food orders. The outcome of this is certain, it always has been since the moment I decided to come back. I open my hand palm up and rotate my hand in a sweep that includes the other worker standing behind him and the suave Italian gentleman. By doing so I draw them into the conversation, make them feel part of it whilst putting increasing public pressure on Luigi. I reiterate my comments at how ridiculous the pizzeria is being, throw in a trickle of disbelieving laughter and make a sort of raised eyebrow appeal at the other two. Nothing will damage him more than his own Sicilian flesh and blood siding with this cadaverous, English upstart.

“If nobody told me, how was I supposed to know?” is what I am now saying to the 2 other people. The guy has now retracted a little back into the kitchen and with a slightly hushed voice, absolutely overflowing with accusation he looks at me, points and spits
‘You know.... you must know.....everybody know.’

As i'm reeling from this unexpected dose of malice the suave gentleman interjects. His hands are in a prayer position and he nods them towards Luigi and tilts his head. It is a seemingly very stereotypical maffia gesture, that is pulled off with nobility and style. It is done with such authority that I assume he owns the pizzeria and has:

A) Decided to overrule Luigi and is granting me my rightful Falafel.

Or

B) Has ordered Luigi’s immediate execution for such insolence to a customer and for constructing an argument on such shaky and questionable foundations.

It’s all over now, I can taste the victory all I need to do now is look up & savour Luigi’s face sinking or his imminent demise. ..
but no! ...
still nothing.....
Not even a nod from the don himself can deter this man from his futile, predetermined path. This man *actually* believes that his next port of call isn’t going to be fixing me up some pure, free falafel. Here he is, tyring to convince me that I have forgotten about some universal law which states that mayonnaise automatically goes on food, when in fact, it was I who was going to teach him a very basic universal law. People, whether they be children, girlfriends, pets or customers, who cause a scene,tend to always get what they want. In the case of a customer who causes a scene, they always get what they want.

Everybody secretly knows this power exist. Many of us would carry some pathetic sense of pride, pretend it wasn’t worth the challenge, crumble then walk off and proceed bitch about for the remainder of the day. Unfortunately for him, that’s not me. My prize is my pride. This man has no idea to the lengths I’d be prepared to go to to get my clean falafel. Fortunately for him, I know that he will crack before I have to pull any extreme manouevres. It’s time to finish him, with ease and with speed.
I Start to erratically point in the general area of the menu board whilst pacing back and forth from the shop door to the counter, raising my voice slightly and putting on an angry tone - it doens’t matter what you say at this point, you can just repeat the general concern, if they don’t listen you start to shout- whilst all the other customer's eyes are glued to me. To his discredit, he cracked instantly and sooner than I had predicted. I thought I would have to at least start banging my chest, ape style, shouting, mixing it in with some direct pointing in his face before he came to his senses.

He motioned for me to sit down and await my bounty.
At this point I was disappointed. Yes, technically I had won, but it was an assured, incredibly minor victory. When calmly explaining at the beginning, I didn’t allow any emotion to penetrate me and I was genuinely calm. After he had been putting up resistance, even not submitting to the Don, I allowed myself to taste the sweet surge of adrenalin and prepared myself for the possibility of having to appear to completely flip out, have some insane fit complete with flying arms, hissing, screaming and scare them into thinking I was dangerous. He had toyed with me, pretending to be a worthy adversary , he built me up and then dropped me down. I knew that he had lost face and it was hard for him to back down.

I felt empty inside and strangely I didn’t want to gloat or adopt a cocky attitude. Even though this man had jeopardised my booked internet time at the library and even though he had allowed my arch nemesis to shoot off a sneak attack in my mouth, for some reason, I decided to make things easier for him. I opened the first post-war negotiations, explaining to him that in England they normally ask if you want sauce and I threw him some small talk and pleasantries. He responded in kind and I could see that part of the humiliation had been lifted.

The falafel was mediocre. My consumption undisturbed.

Karma drama library palaver

I’m sat on one of the internet computers in Uppsala library with my 30 minute timer quickly winding down. Every day I’m here and every time the same girl is always here at the same time wanting to use the computers. In the beginning it was just me, then one day she shows up out of the blue and I end up asking her for some Swedish translation. She’s got black curly hair, really looks like my friend Emily and I find this very disturbing. Her dress is none descript: Jeans, a hoody and I was able to discern nothing from her appearance. After this she is constantly around wearing skirts, ties, make up and looking very alternative. We seem to make eye contact all the time and she hovers around me sometimes pretending to look at the books behind me, waiting for me to initiate conversation. I have no fear or problem talking to anyone but for some reason I don’t speak to her again and this causes a really strange and awkward chemistry to exist between us where we purposefully avoid each other because it feels so weird to be near each other and not to speak.

I’m already quite edgy because I’m doing a runner from paying the rent and today of all days the only free computer is next to me and she’s had to sit there. I catch her sneaking looks at my screen and I do the same to her. Why is she here? Should I propose a fight club style system? Splitting the days of the week at the library up between us so we never have to meet and can both enjoy our internet release in peace? Have things really gotten this far?

I turn in the direction of the ticket machine, give it a preliminary scan and then back to my screen.
Half a second.
Pause.
Did I just see what I think I just saw?
Na, my evil brain would like me to think that.
I’d better check anyway though, paranoia can spread like *.
Turn to the machine
And very, very quickly back to my screen.
Freeze
Heart increases 5 fold.
There at the ticket machine for 15 minute internet access is my landlord, the one I planned never to have to see again for blatant reasons. He looks like he’s muttering to himself, keeps his head down and assumes a chair while waiting for his turn.
Am I in an episode of a soap opera here or a bad film with a sickeningly moral and just ending?

My brain defrosts slightly and starts to formulate plans.
‘Maybe he won’t see you?’ my brain says
“My hair amounts to a mass of big, curly red hair. I’m one of the least discreet people in this entire city, you fucking idiot” I silently reply. He should really pull his head out of his arse and pay attention when we’re staring in the mirror
‘You’re wearing a hoody’ comes the second attempt
“Better”

I pull the hood over myself.
Damn, the sheer bulk of it still can’t be contained and some of it is hanging out of the front.
“What now!?”
‘The string! The string!’ he shouts
Yes, the string! I tug the string tight around me, obscuring part of my face in the process. Bonus.

‘You know…there are 4 computers for the drop in, 2 of which are on the other side of the bench. There’s a fifty/fifty chance that he may be sat completely out of view and then we can make our escape.’
“Nice work brain. Let’s sit it out, ride the odds and hope our ticket doesn’t get marked”

I began to feel like the United States of Am*rica and the girl sat next to me was Pakistan. Earlier my propaganda ministry had vilified this individual as a grave threat to my security and well being. Even after all my cold-shouldered sanctions she had still managed to secretly develop internet capabilities in an attempt to undermine our cold, hard monopoly of it. It was fine for me alone to have this power, but for it to fall into anyone else’s hands it would surely lead to misuse. However, now that my landlord, Iraq, had showed up, proving to be an even greater threat, I really needed her on side and for us to instantly pretend that things were fine between us…that they had always been fine. It didn’t matter anymore that she had been training up young beggar children in the ways of logging on. My intelligence sources had uncovered one of her sinister plots: A terrorist cell was to flood the library, infiltrating all the remaining internet computers then open up page after page of Al-Jazeera streaming video in an attempt to crash the entire network and prevent my access.

I wanted to turn to her for assistance, I wanted to tell her that we were now on the same team and we just had to pool our resources and get away from this money hungry despot, but it was pointless. All I could hope for was that she wouldn’t leave my side.
Movement 2 computers to my right. One person’s time had expired, another’s about to begin. But who could it be? Make or break.
The USA, Pakistan and Iraq now side by side by side.

‘Are you getting a slight sense of de ja vu?’ questions my brain
“no, don’t be ridicul….oh…oh…actually shrrit!”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Manchester – Rusholme -, the spring of 2005. I’ve met a girl who I’m having a really intense relationship with.
“I can’t pay my rent” she says one day
‘Run away and move in with me!’ comes my gleeful suggestion.
In the dead of night we sneak away across the park. She really hates her housemates. Wouldn’t it be funny if we left them a little note we decide?
A piece of paper folded in half. The outside reads, “Rent money” and the inside reads “Screw you guys, I’m going home!”
My computer speakers are broken because I spilt water on them, let’s borrow the Cod player and bring it back later.
We think this is hilarious and go on to live a life of poverty heavily tinged with crime, excitement and adventure. (The girl is still my girlfriend now and who I went to Sweden to be with)

Manchester – Rusholme – December 2005.
Together we are sat in an internet café with me currently at the controls.
“Let’s go, I really wanna go” Leylla says
‘Paid £1 you know, need my money’s worth’
“I really, really want to go. Let’s leave” whilst tugging at my shirt.
I turn round to see Leylla’s scared face and there’s some grinning guy asking me if she is my girlfriend. This is the guy who lived in the house in Rusholme. This is the guy whose cd player we borrowed but never actually bothered to return because we still needed it. Oh dear

“Thank you brain. Why couldn’t you have ceased up and then us had this revelation afterwards, when we were safe”
My brain has freaked me out immensely now. Is there some protective Karma force going round dishing out just desserts and placing landlords and runaways together?

‘Didn’t we bump into Leylla’s landlord 2 days before she left the country as well?’
Oh shit…even the timings to the day seem to be fitting together here.

I don’t believe in God, I’m not a lost idiot, but I do believe there is a guiding force out there that creates a balance to level everything off. There has to be so that not one thing can over run the planet. You have Fire, then you have water. You have politicians, you have sniper rifles. I was pretty sure I’d paid my debt by not stealing the camera. I didn’t deserve to be caught, did I?

In my peripheral vision a figure is looming over my right shoulder. It looms and then it hangs
‘It’s fine’ my brain soothes.
‘Worst case scenario we can knock him down and then flee. We’re the ones with the adrenaline.’
Even though this was perfectly true I still wanted to avoid any confrontation.
There’s a tap on my shoulder….
I look round.
Who the fuck is this guy ?
He says something in Swedish. I know I can respond by saying I can’t speak Swedish in Swedish but what if he starts talking English? The landlord will hear me.
Just then Pakistan intervenes beautifully and exchanges places.

Lucky escape.
“Maybe we are gonna get away with this matter Mr. Matter”
Some time passes.
‘Wait, isn’t Leylla supposed to be arriving any minute to meet us?’
NO! Any second Leylla is due and if she doesn’t clock Iraq and comes straight to me it’s all over. This is even worse than before. I don’t wanna have to face an awkward confrontation with my own girlfriend watching. The tension builds and builds, I am just staring at the screen now, trying to make my brain stop thinking until it’s all over.

I hear the scrape of a chair, he’s gone! Operation camouflage? Success!

Goodbye

Dear Landlord/Room mate,

I'm Really sorry, my money didn't come through and I've had to go back to England to sort it out. I'll be in touch about the rent soon. You're a really nice guy and this wasn't my intention, sorry.

Tenant

Is how my concise and uneloquent final correspondence to my landlord and flatmate read.

I'd been thinking about running away without paying any of the promised rent for about a week, ever since I discovered that money owed to me from England was not going to happen.

In the final few days I had been avoiding my landlord. We shared a 1 bedroom flat in Sweden: me in the bedroom and him in the living room. This meant that I had no shared access to any facilities, my bedroom consisting of basically a matress on the floor causing it to look like a smack den.

In the beginning I made a firm resolve that I wouldn't go into the living room and make use of any TV/Dvd/Combination as this would be unfair behaviour towards someone who had been good to me.

I think I cracked within 2 days, starting to regularly watch videos and Dvds when he was at work. I decided that this was actually right for me to do this, not wrong, and now it would only be wrong if I started drinking his chai tea and using his record player.

But, I really like chai tea and I really wanted to listen to music.

The longer I settled in there the more boundaries I continually set for myself and then subsequently broke.

<>Don't delve into his sealed Lord of the Rings Christmas chocolate pack that he obviously sees as a collectors item.

<>Don't go into his laptop to watch naruto.
<>Don't play with the scanner.

<>Don't route through his drawers and start playing with his camera.

<>Don't toot on his trombone.

One day he announced that he was going to a role playing game in Stocholm and wouldn't be back until the next day. I made myself at home: eating in the living room, records, dvds and videos everywhere. Actually, I'm bored so I think I'll drop some acid and listen to music.

30 minutes later the door opens and he's there with his girlfriend.
Shit.
I hadn't planned ever to be in this situation and so I had to think on my feet aiming to Guide myself out of it without having to directly aplogise or face any immediate consequences.

"Er, I had the Tv on there."
Shit! Terrible opener, need to direct attention away from the crime scene to an equally heinous act.

"The cat did a poo on the floor..."
Better, yes, don't forget about the evil cats now.

"even though the litter tray was clean..."
Aha! See? Their act was senseless, at least mine had some justification.

"I mopped it up though."
Perfect twist to put myself in a positive light.

'My plans were changed, I hope we didn't disturb you'
My flatmate says this in the manner of those kind teachers at school. The ones who don't shout at you for being naughty, but make you feel really guilty inside by treating you nice and softly. They don't get angry so you have something to hate them back at for, they wanna see you squirm with embarrassment and admit your wrongs. In this instance "I hope we didn't disturb you" really meant. Haha! Look what you do when you think you have free reign over my flat. What the fuck are you doing? We've caught you in the act, red handed and there's no escape.

I decide to go into dumb mode and take these words for their literal meaning

"No...no...it's fine..don't worry about it, no need to apologise"
Haha, what a genius way to avoid all confrontation.

I went into my room and crawled into bed with the lights off. I feared greatly for what was going to happen to me being trapped in a dark room with a head full of acid.

No comment.

I avoided him for the remaining few days. I knew that if I saw him then I would feel guilty and I didn't wanna feel that way.

It became apparent that I was gonna have to do a runner and this felt fucking awful that I would leave Leylla, but it felt good that I was gonna skip the rent. Even though I liked my flat mate and he had been good to me, I couldn't muster up any feelings of conscience about running away. 2 weeks before he had announced that he had just found a bank account that he had "forgotten" about with £4000 in it and so I guess I had little sympathy at that point.

When I had been on his laptop I had seen the photos he had taken with his camera. Really bad shots of the cats and some zoomed in shots of The Simpsons opening credits. This really annoyed me as my camera is broken; I use cameras well and enjoy getting creative with them. The same thing happens when I see some little rich punk with an i-pod listening to happy hardcore or pop music. I deserve that i-pod! And you know what the most fucked up thing is? I'd technically be in the wrong if I beat up those little shits and stole their i-pods.
Madness.
Just because someone has money does that mean they have more of a claim over something than someone who deserves it and would put it to good use, not seeing it as a fashion accessory?

I genuinely, genuinely compare my struggle to that of Israel and Palestine. The palestinians -Me- deserve the land -Cameras, ipod, whatever- but because Israel -Rich,undeserving people- is rich with America backing it up they can assume control.

So, yeah, in the end it felt like I was doing him a favour by running away without paying the rent because I didn't take the camera with me, even though I would put it to better use.

I packed my stuff, left the note and my last thought of my ex-flatmate was
"you lucky, lucky bastard"

Featured Twat

Thank you to http://thenextbigwebthing.com for this review


http://Googletwatted.blogspot.com

Please note, I have quite a few stories left from sweden that, need to be posted before I write about what is going on now. Will Definitely have one more up by tomorrow.

Google twatting hasn't emerged because I'm out of ideas or stories, it isn't a pathetic extension strategy.

White Kit Kats? FUCK OFF you idealess, desperate pocket fillers.

I need to E-mail my Lla now, that takes priority.